Tales of a lonely Wanderer
by SerenePhenix
Summary: Companion series to "Senitive Re-Collection"/ Image by GraphiteDoll on DA/ The road to finding back to youself in the darkness is long, full of hardships and set-backs but when there is at least one other presence to help you - to guide you - a wish might turn into reality.
1. In the Silence

Dans le silence il n'y a que vous

_In the silence there's no one else but you.~ __Philippe Pozzo di Borgo_

_A Rise oft he Guardians OneShot by Cameco aka. SerenePhenix_

_Read "Sensitive" first.  
_

* * *

There was only silence. Silence and darkness. A silence so heavy that time seemed to have stopped. A darkness so thick that it seemed to engulf anyone or anything so that only thoughts remained.

There was nothing but silence and darkness in the realm where Pitch Black had been dragged. But unlike any human, be it child or adult, Pitch Black felt not estranged to it for he was darkness and with it came the silence.

Silence brought up by fear and misery. Centuries ago that would have been a human's but after his defeat, it became his own.

The Nightmare King could not recall how long ago it had been since he was cast away into the shadows for a second time. Time held no value in a world that was pitch-black, where life itself had come to a halt.

Vaguely he remembered having been in this position once before but it had been a small diamond dagger in his chest holding him prisoner and not his own fears, his own anguish to fail again.

It was cruel irony that brought that little Moonbeam, the very counterpart to his existence, into his lair and unleashed him to the world again: A world that gave him the name Boogeyman; A world where fear had roamed without guidance; without a clear purpose.

He had been visible to the naked eye when he first set out to conquer a world full of happiness and sorrow, love and tragedy. It was only once he was overmastered time and time again by the Guardians, that he was stripped of his power more and more until he was nothing but a mere shadow and at last nothing more but a myth and a few hushed words.

He rejoiced recalling the times where he had posed a true threat to his enemies and yet inside this darkness and silence where nothing else but his own thoughts penetrated through a thick mist of anguish and wretchedness, a presence, long forgotten, barely alive, was making itself known.

It was old, it was grieving and most disturbing of all – it was filled with kindness.

Whenever Pitch wallowed in reminiscence of what he had achieved and what he had gained from it, this familiar entity, which felt alien all the same, seemed to claw at his very core as if it wanted to dick up something that was lost inside his soul too long ago for him to still know it was present.

And sometimes when he let it do as it pleased, when he did not interfere with its hunt, feelings and wishes he had not wanted to ever let resurface, were brought to light in this endless darkness.

There was nothing before he was Pitch Black, there should be nothing before he was born and yet images came to his mind when the loneliness in his confinement became suffocating. Images so distorted and fluctuating that he could not tell if they were dreams, conjured by his distress or something else entirely, whose origins he ignored.

But there were no dreams to chase away the lifelessness; only nightmares to haunt him.

It mostly was a face. A pale and gentle face with the youth of a child. Sometimes the face was framed with ebony black hair, on other occasions it wasn't. Sometimes it held a smile, sometimes a frown. But most of the time there would be dark and loving eyes going with it.

He could see the images like through a broken spy glass. Many of them were connected to a longing and a sadness that run deep but that he could not understand. It made him want to recoil, to withdraw himself so he would not get tainted with false hope and yet he was fascinated at the same time.

The same applied for the locket he had acquired from that brown haired little girl centuries ago. It held nothing special to him and still it awakened these feelings he did not have any use for, that gave him nothing but grief he found pitiful and repulsive.

The easiest would be to throw it away right here, in this endless darkness where he would never find it again, where it would not torment him. Instead his long bony fingers would hold onto it tighter as though it was his dearest possession. He had time and time again assured himself he could let go of it any time he wanted but by now even he had come to accept that as much as he hated the innocent golden object, he needed it.

The reason was that it brought him comfort. Comfort and warmth he had long since given up. He had not lied when he told Jack that a family was what he longed for. He did not know where that need had blossomed from only that it came up very recently for a being as ancient as him and that scared him more than the prospect of never succeeding.

Feelings he should not know, feelings he should not have, memories he should not be able to recall and yet they were there, ever present and repressed by his denying mind.

And so in this darkness and silence, one question tormented him, just like it had tormented the winter spirit with whose fears he had toyed so recklessly: Who was he?

Was he truly only Pitch Black, the Nightmare King or was he more than he anticipated? Was there more to him than he himself knew?

It tore at the very foundations of his being, leaving him withering in agony for there was no answer in a world where he was all alone; unheard and unloved.

It was while his thoughts were destroying and shifting the debris of his soul into new positions that he saw it: A tiny light shining in the blackness.

He was darkness itself but that longing that the old entity inside of him and the locket had driven out of the deepest part of his soul made him reach out for it instinctively.

Long fingers and cold hands, so unused to function enveloped it with cravenness and care they should not have been capable of. Gingerly he made room for it with his grey hands, letting its glow expand in the dark void.

It was a delicate blue butterfly resting in his palms, cold and glowing and beautiful. And inside his head and a heart that was not supposed to be there he felt something crack, opening an old wound that had never truly healed, unaware that it even existed.

Cradling the only thing that seemed to want to bring him comfort in this indifferent realm, he caved in on himself, ignoring the taunts from the unmoving shadows, the whispers of the locket and the clawing of that old presence.

All that mattered was the butterfly shaped light that soothed him.

Before the night was over, it would give way to more memories than Pitch Black ever have thought he had even if he did not know it yet.

* * *

The outside world was just as dark as Pitch's lair. There was no moon tonight to illuminate the woods and to shine upon the one lonely figure staring at the gaping hole which seemed to stand out with its more forbidding darkness.

As though to make sure no one could see him, even with no light to even indicate he was there, the figure had the hood of his blue sweater pulled over his white hair.

His blue eyes looked sadly at the hole, unmoving but searching.

What he wanted here, he did not fully comprehend himself. He had come out of pity and nothing more. But his presence did not rouse the one he was expecting to be here. It probably was for the better.

He had thought that a butterfly, like he had seen swirl over the Nightmare Kings head three years ago, would get him a reaction.

When nothing happened he turned around scoffing at his own stupidity and indecision. He was a Guardian now, he protected children, he had a family, he was happy. So, what did he want more?

He shot one last glance towards the hole where his enemy was held captive by his own fears and by all standards deservedly so. He could not stop his throat from clenching while remembering the loneliness.

Maybe that was why he came. But it was better that he did not wake a sleeping lion. He wished for the peace to last even if he could relate to the one he had not forgiven yet.

At last he took off, not knowing he had brought back things to a man, who just like him was in search of his identity.

* * *

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Philippe Pozzo di Borgo became tetraplegic after a terrible accident while paragliding. He once stated in an interview that although he had lost function of his arms and legs, the accident also let him find himself, for in a silent room, like the hospital room he was staying at, there is only you and your thoughts.

Philippe's fate became well known in public through the movie "The Intouchables".


	2. Still Waters

Still waters

* * *

_**No one can see their reflection in running water. It is only in still water that we can see. **__  
__Taoist proverb by Zhuangzi_

_A Rise ot the Guardians OneShot by Cameco aka. SerenePhenix_

_Sequel to "In the Silence…"_

* * *

The lake which he was standing at was peaceful. No ripples, no waves. A dark reflecting surface for the pale moon, that was hanging in the sky, enveloping everything - from the leafy trees to the cold naked rocks - into a wintry and otherworldly light. It was peaceful at the still water and the cold season had yet to come.

Pitch stood still as though he too had become part of the scenery like the silent woods surrounding him. He drank in this silence, so different from the one he had escaped not too long ago after the butterfly had unlocked memories that had been snatched away from him. His pale blue companion was resting on his shoulders, minuscule wings flapping from time to time.

Pitch had not asked for it to come with him and still it had stayed no matter if he gave it attention or not. It just went along like a stray animal that had taken a liking to a stranger who had been kind enough to feed it once.

The sight of the delicate beetle hurt too much for him to bear at the moment.

He looked towards the moon, the home of one of the last to have seen the golden age and whose life he had condemned to be bound to an unmoving object in the skies. He remembered almost everything. He knew that some memories would never return, lost in his fear induced madness and drowned in thoughts as dark as the night.

Tsar Lunar was now most certainly a full grown man, much like he had been when the dark shadows had taken control of his mind. He smiled bitterly as he looked down at himself. He had had ashen skin and a dark robe when he had been unwillingly cast into the black abyss for a second time. Now after ridding himself of the influences that had possessed him for millennia, he was grey.

He let his gaze return to the pond, leaning forward slightly so he could catch a glimpse of his new image. The face he saw looked nothing like the one of a Nightmare King – or that of a former hero. His ashen skin had just turned a darker shade of grey, nor really black nor truly light.

Just something in between. Someone in between his past and present. In between good and bad.

He turned and twisted his neck, scrutinizing his hollow cheeks and sunken in eyes. His eyes had changed the most of all. No longer were they interveined by the grey that was now adorning his skin, instead they were of a very clear gold – sharp, open and no longer clouded by the desire to bring about absolute darkness and fear.

He raised a bony hand and shaking from the effort summoned a bit of the black sand he had prided himself so much with having mastered. It twisted feebly but headed his command. Balling his hand into a fist, thus letting go of his hold on the black grains, he watched as the wind carried it away.

He could still feel fear all around, could still tell he was the very essence of it but he was no longer its undisputed master. he had no desire to be it anymore. These things he had left behind in the lair, suffering immense pain because of it. He breathed in deeply, feeling as though his lungs could expend endlessly now that a heavy weight was gone from his now sharply protruding shoulders.

His eyes watched the pale round satellite. He felt like he should say something. But what was there to say when all he could do was admit once again his terrible crimes, unable to change what had been done? He didn't know and so he stayed silent.

He had wronged many, just like many had wronged him. But nothing they did never could measure to what he had done.

He had killed thousands and thousands, turned too many to count into Nightmare Men, destroyed more worlds than any other force of the cosmos and had come to lose more than he could have ever gained.

The butterfly hovered before his face before darting towards the middle of the pond, bathing in the reflected light of the moon, its blue glow intensified.

As Pitch watched it, how it elegantly floated up and down, he felt a surge of emotions so strong it was like someone was driving the diamond dagger into a heart he had recently regained. He sunk to his knees, fingers gripping and scratching at his scalp with the ferocity of an animal in agony. These emotions were so raw, so untainted because they had been cast away from his being for so long that he could barely bear feeling them.

Pitchiner missed his daughter with whom he often had marveled at such delicate beings as the blue butterfly. His sweet little daughter, whose fate was unknown to him. The thought that maybe all those years ago he had turned her into one of his servants, not knowing, unable to recognize her was a torture he would never even wish his most lethal enemy.

He was at a point where he truly wished to fade into oblivion forevermore. He knew that he could not die even if he wanted to.

Face buried in his hands in shame and self-loathing he just sat there and listened. The wind had picked up and the water was noisily gurgling.

He leapt to his feet with a start, his eyes darting around frantically. He was not ready he realized with rising anxiety.

For the first time in his existence his eyes looked up towards the one he had orphaned, seeking for help. But the Man in the Moon stayed as silent as ever and with guilt heavy on his conscious Pitch came to the conclusion that maybe it served him right.

The butterfly was at his side again, bobbing up and down with the winds and seeking refuge inside his grey robe.

Pitch turned around and made his way towards the small shadows of the trees while the air was getting chilly. He had to admit defeat. He was not ready to face anyone yet and less of all one of the Guardians that had beaten him.

He would have to wait, wait until he was healed enough as not to crumble at any moment's notice, until he truly knew if he was Pitch Black or Kozmotis Pitchiner. Until he knew his true purpose in this world. Until maybe he could find out about the whereabouts of his daughter.

He disappeared before Jack Frost even knew there had been a visitor at his pond, wanting to speak with him desperately yet unable to.

* * *

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Zhuangzi was an influential Chinese philosopher. His teachings often deal with man's limited knowledge in comparison to limitless knowledge that the world around us possessed.

The quote can be interpreted in a way as to say that someone, who tries to look at himself while his feelings are in disarray will never be able to get a clear idea of who he really is.


	3. Invictus

Invictus

I thank whatever gods may be / For my unconquerable soul. / I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul.

~ William Ernest Henley

* * *

It had taken him more than five decades to come to understand his place in this world. Five decades of wandering around in the embrace of the night and in the shadows of daylight, always careful, always apprehensive. An early encounter with one of the other spirits would inevitably lead to a confrontation.

Pitchiner was in a desolated park, sitting on a bench and waiting for a special guest to make his appearance. It was unusually quiet. He had come to understand that around this time of the year children tended to venture out onto the streets and stayed up late, disguised as some sort of monster, mystical creature or fear inspiring character from a story.

Halloween could be considered his season but it was just another false conclusion about him. It was the day humans celebrated to drive away evil spirits and fears. Their fears of the dark, of the unknown… of their childhood. Children were smiling and happy on that day, running around, occasionally scaring each other and giggling. So it was normal for him to be confused about the lack of activity on this October 31th.

He craned his neck left and right but still there was no one else but him. Although maybe that was not entirely correct. He looked up to see the full moon shining down upon him and the general area. As soon as he felt his eyes linger for too long he averted them in shame. He still couldn't bring himself to speak to the one he had robbed of a loving family.

It made him just more conscious about what a long way he still had to go. He sometimes asked himself if he would ever be able to face the consequences of his actions.

A knot was forming inside his chest, bulging and constricting all at once. In all honesty he felt sick to his stomach. Maybe he wasn't ready yet. But there was the question again: Would he ever truly be?

He shook his head. He did not want to think about it too much. It would only make him run away again, just like on the day when he had been near the pond.

He remembered how after avoiding that encounter with the Guardian of fun he had taken a good look at the world around him and at the children and humans he had loathed. Ironically it also had been their attention he had been seeking for the last centuries.

His memories had changed his view on the residents of earth. The memory of his daughter, who bore a lot of resemblance to the human children, had changed it.

He spent his nights and days watching, wanting to understand once again, to know once again what a family was supposed to be like. He hadn't touched the children even once. The image of his daughter would appear in front of him whenever the nightmares grew strong again. He felt like dying every time it occurred for he felt the weakness of his will also. To this day he still had no clue where she was or if he had made her his pawn.

His first time of intervention came when a little girl, who liked to climb trees, beginning to become more and more adventurous, clambered up trees that were getting higher and higher every day. The parent's fear of their daughter falling down one of them, maybe to her death even, had been palpable and gave Pitch back strength he found nauseating. This was not what he wanted to be anymore. He did not want fear to be his element, his core, his purpose anymore but he would never be able to get rid of it.

To his surprise the blue little butterfly that had kept him company all of these years, was not leading him away to another place. When he tried to go away during the night it flew off towards the girl's window, through the glass and into her room.

Pitch had been stunned for a moment, for the small companion never left his side for more than a few seconds. He had paused and watched the pale blue light glowing inside the room and illuminating the window.

Begrudgingly he followed him through the shadows, feeling that familiar tug before he landed on his feet again, in front of a small-sized bed with a starry bedspread.

The girl was slumbering peacefully, a content smile on her face as she nuzzled further into the warm blankets as though she was aware of the sudden intrusion. Pitch's face was blank as he watched her sleep, so reminiscent of his own girl, whom he longed to see with an intensity and heartache only a parent could even begin to understand.

The little butterfly hovered above her, drawing circles in the air over her head. Pitch threw it a look of pure anger for the first time since he had come across it in the cold, dark cavern. Why were they here? What was it hoping to achieve by forcing him through this?

His answer came in form of a golden tendril of sand that swirled down from the cloudy sky, through the same glass the little beetle had passed like it was made of air and curled into intricate shapes over the brown mop of hair. The butterfly had by then resumed his usual position beside a stunned Pitch who watched as the dream sand from the Sandman conjured the image of the little girl jumping from the highest point of an imagined world only belonging to her and flying above fluffy clouds.

Pitch's golden eyes lit up in understanding as he now came behind the mystery as to why the girl was climbing trees one higher than the one before. His head whipped sideways to look at the little airborne creature next to him, his eyes filled with dread and doubt.

Should he do it? Was it the right thing? What if nothing ever happened to her and she just led a happy life? He backed away slowly, breath coming in short and quick gasps. It was like there was no more air left in the confined space, making him dizzy and lightheaded. His wide eyes fell on the butterfly again that hadn't moved and remained floating on the spot.

Pitch stared, panic rising inside of him. He shook his head with such force that it turned his whole torso to one side.

"No! No! No!", he croaked as he grabbed at his head, growing desperate. He did not care if anyone heard him, though it was unlikely that he would rouse anyone in this house. He looked up again. He was so terrified.

The thought of using his powers after all these years was worse than remembering the time spent in that hell-hole that had been his second prison. He could not bear to become who he had been for so long, he did not wish to lose control over his powers, over himself again only to be cast into the death-reeking darkness.

He did not think he could keep his last shred of sanity if he were to go back there a third time.

But his friend did nothing to console him, flapping its wings just as fast as it always did. One could even say that it looked expectant.

Pitch felt frozen on the inside. He could either go and continue all alone or he did what the blue beetle seemingly wanted him to do and have his comforting presence beside him. The choice was made quickly but with a sickening feeling that was clogging up Pitch's throat as if he had bit off more than he could chew.

He felt detached as he strode next to the bed and reached out his hand, like he had done routinely so many years ago. He stretched his hand toward the golden sand which still pictured a smiling girl, rushing along with the winds. His grey finger stopped just as a grain missed it by inches and he drew back his hand again, shaking like he was exposed to the coldest of temperatures. He was fighting a battle on his inside no one might ever possibly understand. Not even the butterfly.

Of course he did not want to be the Nightmare King anymore but that did not change the fact that the darkness that had corrupted him for eons was entirely gone. Even now he could hear its gentle whisper, promising him power, glory… a family. It was hard to resist it. On the other side were his daughter and the guilt of maybe having turned her into a Nightmare.

Pitch startled out of his trance as he could feel the nearly non-existent weight of a blue butterfly on his shoulder, wings folded and sitting still. That was all it took for Pitch to overcome his own anxieties and doubts.

The golden grains started to be overcome by a darker hue: not entirely sun golden anymore but not dark as night, a dirty mix in-between. Pitch stared at it fascinated, for it showed once again what changes had happened with him and his powers.

The little dream-sand girl was whipping her head around and the real child squirmed under the covers but did not cry out or wail. Crouching down so as to be on the same level as the dream Pitch gave the nightmare a direction, controlling it and hampering it into growing into a full-fledged Night Mare.

The dirty brown figure was dropping a few times, growing more and more uncomfortable and frantic as she began losing control of her powers. A sand tree came into view and she latched onto it desperately, just like her real body did with its pillow, afraid that she would fall. Pitch twisted his thin hand gracefully and suddenly the tree was unimaginably high.

The figure on the branch hunched over and began to cry, its shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The girl in the bed whimpered as fear crept into her very being. Pitch's fingers were tingling with the faint sensation of power and satisfaction, a cold smile creeping onto his face, a bit of the grey seeping back into his golden irises.

He knew he would have succumbed to darkness again that day if the butterfly hadn't rushed through the image, destroying the dream and breaking the spell upon the little girl who shot up in bed immediately. Her eyes were wide and distraught as she looked at the stranger next to her.

Time had frozen that instant when they eyed each other, the child and the Boogeyman. Pitch was overcome by a surge of different emotions, ranging from self-loathing to sheer incredulity and… happiness. Although it came at a heavy price as the girl shrieked, jumped out of her bed and ran towards the door crying and screaming for her parents, terrified by his appearance.

It took him a moment to realize the magnitude of what had just happened. He stumbled backwards, feeling ill and downright alarmed as the whispers of the shadows he had been holding at bay became louder, trying to gently embrace him and bring him back into their midst.

It was again the butterfly who saved him, fluttering around his crumbled form and chasing the tendrils of darkness away. Pitch was too distressed to notice. The room felt too small, the once welcoming warm walls closing in on him threateningly. Making as much space between himself and the dark corners he went for the window, pushed it open, cold air blasting into his face and jumped. He landed on his feet somehow and immediately made a mad dash in direction of the forest.

The world around him grew eerie and menacing - every sound, every movement alerting him, making him whip his head around in utter terror. So this was what it felt like when one was subjected to his power.

He only stopped once he his legs couldn't carry him any farther. Gasping he looked around, trying to make out a potential attacker but he was alone in the dead woods. Alone with his thoughts. That was when his mind registered something was amiss. The lack of a blue light beside him made his insides twist and turn violently. The butterfly was gone. He had left it in that house with the shadows in his panic.

His hand flew to his chest as it became impossible to breath at a normal pace. Without the butterfly he was vulnerable, without it the shadows would have an easy game turning him over, without the butterfly he had lost his last link to the memories of his daughter…

He sagged to his knees slowly, soul shattered. What was he to do? It was impossible to run forever, from something that was ever present. His breath hitched. He did not want his mind torn apart again. He buried his face in his hands, feeling warm air coming from his mouth. Even that had changed after he remembered, going from coldness to warmth. The worst was his certitude that it would be back to its iciness sooner than he ever would have imagined in his worst nightmare.

He chuckled at that, the situation too dire and hopeless to even be truly afraid anymore. Blind to the world he sat there, immobile, awaiting the inevitable, frantic laughter escaping him.

He did not know how much time passed until he felt another presence come his way. He steeled himself, wanting to face his faith with at least some dignity. His tired eyes focused on a row of trees in front of him and his heart leapt to his throat.

Gently the blue glowing beetle floated up to his face, staying afloat. He reached out, dreading to find out it was nothing but a mere illusion, a trick of his lonely mind. Instead he felt the pleasant chill that was always there, emanating from that tiny body. He cupped his hands like he had done the very first time he had laid eyes upon it and it sat there, flapping its wings occasionally.

He gave a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be alright, now that his guiding light was back at his side.

* * *

Even now he could feel the reassuring presence inside his robe as it rested. He had come to understand why he needed it so much and he was glad that when the darkness grew too strong on him, it would stop it just in time. But it had gotten easier at ignoring the whispers and promises.

The little girl was not the last one he would pay a visit even if he never found out if it did change anything in the end. He liked to tell himself that she never went on a tree again thus never breaking any bones of hers.

It was always the butterfly that guided him, showed him which child to show the dangers in what they did, so that eventually they would stop with it altogether. Sometimes Pitchiner deliberately picked a child which he found needed it.

That way he had seen the world again, had come to know the children he had liked to frighten so much and had unexpectedly come to find that he no longer craved for their faces to be distorted by his powers.

After all the nights since he had freed himself of the dark hole he had found his place. He may not be Kozmotis Pitchiner anymore, the old hero of the Golden Age anymore but he wasn't Pitch Black anymore either. He was a being composed of two sides like anyone else, only that he had gone through both extremes. Now he was a blend and as such he had taken only one part of his old name and part of the title he had acquired after his fall.

He was Pitchiner. Not a war hero. Not a Nightmare King. Just a spirit, preventing children from doing things far too dangerous for them. A spirit that was to remain in the shadows forever.

A cold breeze swiped at the back of his neck coldly, making him shiver. The one he was waiting for was coming and indeed he saw a blue hoodie coming his way.

Pitchiner couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth twitch slightly upwards. Some things seemingly never changed. As the boy landed next to him, facing away, hood drawn up as though he was afraid someone might recognize him while meeting with his former enemy. Even with only the tip of his nose visible, Pitchiner could tell the boy, who had not changed the slightest in appearance was doing rather well by the way his posture was less slumped, his chin held a bit more higher than on their last encounter.

The whole situation was as amusing as it was ironic. There was a silence while the air around them grew colder with the presence of Jack Frost. Pitchiner didn't know what to say. He hadn't even imagined he'd be able to stay with all the worry and guilt making his feet more eager than ever to take him away from here.

But he had managed and that in itself was an achievement he was feeling somewhat proud of. He dismissed the light tugging at the inside of his cloak as the butterfly feeling his own excitement and agitation.

"I don't understand.", whispered the teenaged spirit, slowly sitting down next to him on the other side of the bench.

Pitchiner did not hold his animosity against him. He'd done everything possible to deserve that kind of treatment. Even with his mouth as dry as a desert from his inner tension he replied smoothly: "You don't need to, you already do."

"Maybe but, still: why me?"

It sounded whiny and for a second Pitchiner considered going away and not bothering him anymore. But his desire to let at least someone else (apart from a few frightened children) know he existed just drove him to continue.

"Is that question really necessary, Jack?"

For the first time ever since their conversation started Jack looked at him directly, a dark eyebrow raised judgingly. The boy got up from the bench, showing how restless and uncomfortable he was with the situation.

Pitchiner had grown nervous enough for the muscles on his face to freeze.

Jack strolled around making frost lace the ground and occasionally looking up towards the moon as though he was expecting something to happen. Pitch fiddled with his hands, trying to calm himself. He was not sure anymore what he had been expecting of this meeting anymore.

As the boy sat perched on his staff he made the decision to just answer his first question if it helped him any.

"You were the only one who would not ignore it."

He'd said it in all honesty. Jack Frost had known loneliness from the very first day of his creation. Someone who knew loneliness and was not as cruel as Pitch Black, would answer the call of another lonely soul. And Jack was not someone cruel. He had proven that when he had chosen the wellbeing of the children over his own in Antarctica.

The winter elf nodded in confirmation, blue eyes looking anywhere but at his face.

"No, I wouldn't even if I wanted to."

Pitchiner took it in and accepted it wordlessly. The boy was too good-hearted. The next sentence though made him feel as if Sandman was throwing him hard on the ground with his whip.

"After all, you also did not ignore me even if it only served your purpose."  
"Point taken."

He felt disgusted. He should just leave, he had already done enough to torment the boy. There was no hope to mend someone as broken as him. He should have known.

The smile on his face got misinterpreted as Jack grew rigid on his staff and looked him over, trying to assess how much of a threat he could still be, how much evil deeds he still could fulfill.

"Will you try and bother us again once you are powerful enough?"

His voice was low and threatening, the wind whooshing around them noisily as anger entered those ice-blue orbs. Pitchiner knew that it was better to go now. He was not out for a fight, especially not with the only other one who could understand his solitude. He got up slowly, carefully and turned towards the woods.

He waited a moment to think. He knew the spirit had meant attacking while saying bothering and surely it wasn't what he was planning to do. But even someone like him would never be able to take hundreds of lifetimes of isolation. A bit of that playfulness he had lost over the centuries assaulted him as he looked back at the white-haired boy. He could not promise not to send another message with the wind in another hundred years.

"Who knows."

And he left it at that, seeking refuge in the woods, unsuspecting that today the Man in Mood had been watching him closely passing judgment over him.

In a few more years to come, it would change his ever continuing life forever.

* * *

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William Ernest Henley was an English poet and critic. He became well-known through his poem "Invictus" which he wrote in 1875.

The poem was inspired by a very difficult period of his life, being hospitalized for tuberculosis at a young age and having lost one of his legs because of it. He also might have lost his other leg were it not for a doctor named Joseph Lister.

While recovering from his surgery he was inspired to write this poem.


End file.
